


hunters, hunters, hunters

by sleeponrooftops



Series: don't turn off the lights [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, SPOILERS SO MANY SPOILERS, boys platonically cuddling, gore and violence in nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 19:13:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeponrooftops/pseuds/sleeponrooftops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t know if he’s awake or asleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hunters, hunters, hunters

**Author's Note:**

> Notes —
> 
> i. So as not to spoil anything for anyone, we are now officially entering 3b. I swear to god, we are definitely entering 3b with this fic, I’m going to stop avoiding it now.

Stiles is released a few days before they go back to school.  He has a long conversation with Melissa and his dad before he leaves the hospital, and, by the time he gets in the car, he feels exhausted, mind, body, and soul, and he just wants to go home and lie in bed, hopefully with his dad or Scott or just _someone_ because he’s afraid to be alone.

 

“Dad,” he says softly when they’re on the road.  He doesn’t look over, just keeps his head pressed against the cool window, letting it radiate through him until he doesn’t feel like his skin is burning.

 

“Yeah?” his dad says when he doesn’t continue, and he hates that he can hear the fear in his voice.

 

“Can you call Scott?”

 

“Yeah, of course.  Want me to see if he’ll stay over until school starts?”

 

“I don’t care,” Stiles mumbles, closing his eyes.

 

He drifts off, going in and out of consciousness, though he vaguely recalls the door opening and his dad carefully lifting him out of the car.  He lets him, curling in on him a little, and his dad carries him into the house and to the bottom of the stairs.  “Stiles,” he says softly, and Stiles nods absentmindedly, waking enough for his dad to put him down so that he can go upstairs.  He takes them slowly, and then, when he’s in his room, it seems to take hours to peel off his layers.  Eventually, after his dad has turned on the shower and put away his medication, he comes in to help him undress, and then he’s just left in his boxers and a shirt, sitting on the edge of his bed.

 

“Do you want help?”

 

“No, I’ll—I’ll be okay,” Stiles says nodding, and though he knows his dad doesn’t believe him—he doesn’t, either—he leaves anyway.

 

Stiles sits there, listening to the water run, for nearly five minutes until Scott shows up, climbing in through his window.  Scott looks over at the bathroom and then back at Stiles, shoulders slumping.  After a moment, he takes a breath and comes over, dropping his backpack to the floor and shedding his jacket.  “Come on,” he says, giving Stiles’ shoulder a slap, “Shirt off.”

 

Scott starts undressing, and, in the time it takes him to get down to his boxers, Stiles manages to get the shirt off.  Scott heaves him upright, one arm curled around his waist, leading him toward the bathroom, and Stiles doesn’t know how he ever got so lucky to have Scott in his life because then Scott’s stripping down to nothing, nudging Stiles to do the same, and helping him into the shower.

 

Scott showers with him, though he’s mostly just reminding Stiles what to do next and helping him do it when he just kind of stares at the wall.  He catches him a few times when Stiles moves too fast, grabbing his elbow and steadying him.  Scott can see it all building, but he keeps him together, occasionally soothing a hand over his shoulder or whispering to him.

 

When they finish up, Scott leans over to shut off the water and then steps out to grab a towel for each of them before he tugs Stiles along back into his room.  He continues to take care of him, drying him off and finding him clothes, helping him get into those, before Stiles is mumbling something nearly incomprehensible about his medication as he curls up on his bed.

 

Scott goes to find that, leaves it with Stiles before he jogs downstairs.  Stiles’ dad is in the kitchen, trying to make dinner and failing.  “He’s okay,” Scott says as he goes to make tea, “He’ll _be_ okay.”

 

“You think?” Stiles’ dad asks, looking over.

 

“I know.  He just needs his family right now.”

 

“Yeah—yeah, you’re right.  Thanks for coming over, Scott.”

 

“Anytime, pops,” Scott says, smiling softly, and Stiles’ dad laughs quietly before going back to his dinner, salvaging what he can.

 

When Scott gets back upstairs, Stiles is already asleep, snoring lightly, and Scott smiles, putting the tea on the nightstand and going to stretch out on Stiles’ other side.  He reads for a while before he starts to get drowsy, and then he drifts off.  Stiles sleeps through the night, wakes around ten the next morning yawning, and so they have a lazy day.  Scott eventually calls Isaac over, and they spend the day curled up in Stiles’ bed, marathoning the first season of _Game of Thrones_.  While Scott’s in the bathroom at one point, Isaac convinces Stiles to go out for a quiet dinner, and they end up calling the girls and going to Friendly’s.  They don’t talk about Stiles’ bandaged hand, though they do offer to come over after, and Stiles just quietly shakes his head and shifts a little closer to Scott, who drops an arm around his shoulders.

 

When they get outside, Isaac heads off with Allison, saying he’ll just get a ride from her, and Scott nods, looking once at Lydia before he heads for the jeep.  Stiles starts to follow until Lydia’s fingers ghost over his wrist, and he stops, looking at her.  He doesn’t say anything, just stares, and Lydia fights the urge to yell at him, to shake him and snap him back to _her_ Stiles.  Instead, her fingers close around his wrist, pulling him toward her, and she hugs him tightly, burying her face in his chest.  “Come back,” she whispers before she steps back and leans up on her tiptoes, hands curling around his jaw to tip his head down so she can press a kiss to his forehead.  When she turns away, Stiles is still for a few moments, shocked, before he lets out a shaky breath and turns toward the jeep.

 

Scott stays until they go back to school, and then, after almost a week of barely speaking, Stiles says, “I think I’ll be okay alone tonight.”

 

“Are you sure?” Scott asks, already prepared to dump onto Stiles’ bed and start his homework.

 

“Yeah, I—I gotta figure this shit out eventually, so might as well try to get ahead.  I’ll be fine.”

 

“Call me, if anything,” Scott says, slowly gathering his things.  When he’s got his jacket on and his backpack slung over his shoulder, he turns, trying for a smile.

 

Stiles holds his breath, trying not to break apart, and, after a few moments, he nods to himself and manages a weak smile in return.  “Thank you,” he mumbles, and Scott nods quickly, stepping forward and embracing him.

 

“You’re my brother,” Scott says, squeezing him, and Stiles breaks a little, his breath coming out a little harsh, until Scott rubs his back.  “I love you, man.”

 

“Yeah—I love you, too, Scott.  Thank you, for—for everything.”

 

Scott just gives him a last squeeze before stepping back, and he lingers for a moment longer before he’s gone.  Stiles takes a few deep breaths and then goes to dig out his homework.  If he just believes it, that he’ll be okay, then he will.  He can fake himself into it, he’s done it plenty of times before.

 

He’s wrong.

 

Stiles can feel it happening before it happens, and he fights desperately, trying to claw his way up to consciousness, fingers fisting in his sheets and body twisting.  “Don’t let them in,” he whispers, muscles tensing as he strains against sleep, tries to pull out of it.  “Don’t let them in.  _No_.”

 

And then he’s gasping awake, heart thudding against his ribs, his chest aching.  He frowns, though, because he doesn’t recognize where he is until he sees the lines, and then he realizes how tight the space is around him, how cold, how stale the air is, and he lets out a soft, broken noise, slamming a hand against the locker door.  He throws his forearm when that doesn’t work, kicking out until the locker finally snaps open, and Stiles stumbles out into the locker room.

 

Stiles walks slowly, peeking around the corners before he makes his way into the hallway, and then a door creaks open, and he follows the noise despite every instinct screaming at him to just sit down and wait it out.

 

Inside, Nemeton has taken root, the desks piled in a misshapen heap that, if Stiles looks too fast, looks like skeletal hands, reaching toward him, so he just focuses on Nemeton, picking his way forward, careful not to touch any of the roots.  He doesn’t know why, but he needs to _touch_ it, needs to find something real in all of this, and so he reaches forward, his hand steady for once.

 

The roots grab at him, and he wakes gasping, pushing upright, trying to get out of the tangle of sheets.  “Stiles?” he hears Lydia’s voice, and he looks over as she sits, as well, blinking.  He doesn’t remember asking her over.

 

She asks if he’s okay, and no, he’s not, but he has to be strong for Lydia, _his_ Lydia, so he says, “Yeah, it was just—just a nightmare.”  He reaches over, fingers curling around her hand on his arm, and then it occurs to him—he’s already stepped beyond nightmare, finally crossed over into night terrors, diagnosed both by himself and Melissa.  “Wait, Lydia,” he says, pulling away, his fingers trembling as his throat starts to tighten, and he finds he can’t swallow easily, “What are you doing here?”

 

Lydia frowns at him, and that’s when he notices his door is open.  He doesn’t hear her pleas as he gets out of bed, as sweat makes the back of his shirt cling to his body, as it rolls down his face, makes his lips salty when he licks them, as his throat gets smaller and smaller until his chest is heaving with the effort to breath.

 

Nemeton is before him again, and Lydia is far away, far away and _safe_ , but, as Stiles steps toward Nemeton, lights flood on, and he’s blinded momentarily, lifting a hand to shield his eyes.  When he lowers them, all he can hear is the rush of blood as his heart thuds in his chest, heavy and fast and out of time.

 

“It’s just a dream,” he tells himself, shaking his head, “Just a dream.  Wake up.  Come on, Stiles, wake up.  Wake up.  Stiles.  _Wake up_.  _Wake up, Stiles, wake up_!”

 

And then he’s opening his eyes, slowly, easily, into late morning sun.  His door opens as he shifts, bringing his hands up to push against his bed.  His dad comes in with a mug of coffee in hand and says, “Come on, kiddo.  Time for school, get up.”  He leaves, and Stiles looks around, his mouth open though he doesn’t breathe.

 

He doesn’t know if he’s awake or asleep.

 

Stiles moves robotically, dressing, eating breakfast, driving to school, finding Scott, walking through the halls with him, and he tries to register what’s going on, tries to pay attention, but finds, when he sits in class, that he doesn’t remember walking down the hall, never mind driving to school or waking up.  Did he wake up?

 

“Stiles,” Scott says, frowning.

 

“I don’t even know if this is real,” he says, almost too soft for Scott to hear, and he feels panic rising in his chest, settling at the base of his throat, and he closes his eyes, trying to banish it all, trying to will himself into reality.

 

Stiles wakes screaming, his whole body shaking, a thin sheen of sweat shining in the moonlight, his chest tight and aching as he comes scrambling up out of sleep, trying to kick free of the tangle of blankets around him.  His dad crashes into the room so fast Stiles is sure he wasn’t sleep, was just waiting, and though he’s told his dad a dozen different times how to handle a person waking from a night terror, his dad still lunges toward him, dropping down behind him on his bed and curling his arms around him.  Any other time, Stiles thinks he would have reacted violently, would have lashed out and tried to break free, but the weight grounds him, and his legs only thrash briefly, finally kicking the blankets away.

 

“Stiles,” his dad’s voice echoes around him, his arms squeezing until Stiles grabs at him, scream tapering off into a broken noise, something reminiscent of a wounded animal.  “Hey, hey, sh, you’re okay.  Stiles, you’re okay, you’re safe,” his dad says, and Stiles wants to commend him on remembering that, on remembering to stay calm so as not to encourage the panic.

 

He clings to his dad even as his dad clings to him, anchoring him down, holding him close, and Stiles falls into a lapse of silence that only lasts a few brief seconds before he’s sobbing, the tremors growing stronger until his dad is shifting them, manhandling Stiles back onto the bed.  He pulls Stiles against him, curls around him and lets him hide, fists bunching in his shirt as he shakes.  “Sh,” his dad whispers, running a hand over his back, “You’re okay.  You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay.”

 

He keeps saying it until Stiles starts to believe him, until he goes still and just lies there, safe in the strength of his dad, and neither of them sleep the rest of the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh goodness. I knew 3b was going to hurt, but _damn it_. Even still, I’m really excited to finally be on 3b, though, once I catch up, that does mean that updates will come a little farther apart. In other news, I’m back at school now, and I’m currently posting this wearing my fantastic new Beacon Hills Lacrosse sweatshirt, which has Stiles’ number on the back, and I’m in love with it. I should be having an easy semester, so I don’t think updates will really be lacking, just coming a little farther apart, as I said.
> 
> I’m also trying out some of the theories I’ve been having now that we’ve entered 3b, so it’s going to be interesting seeing where this goes. In this last scene, I’m not actually certain that Stiles wakes up and talks to Scott that first time, I think it’s still him dreaming, so I tried to incorporate that. As far as the theory goes that the first three episodes, so far, have just been in Stiles’ head, I’m on the fence, so I don’t really know if I’m going to be pushing that, though it may happen without me realizing it.
> 
> Anyway, I’m eager to get started on the next fic, so I hope you enjoyed this one, and don’t forget to leave your thoughts!


End file.
